obligatory he's just not that into you post.

Subtitle: “He’s Just Not Into You” messes with my head.

Sub-subtitle: “I’m just overthinking.” (Grey’s Anatomy)

When I was 15 and a freshman in high school I went on my first date. I was so smitten with the boy. He came and picked me up, we went to Chili’s, I ordered what he said his mom usually got because I was shy and uncertain. He brought me home. He called the next night. It was fated.

I remember a month later I found out he had started dating a girl a year older than he. He was a junior, she was a senior. I listened to Brandy sing “Have You Ever” over and over again. (Don’t judge me.) My heart hurt.

When I was 16 and none-the-wiser, I went out with that boy again. This time was a double date. Afterwards we went to the house of the other boy and watched Friday and it was ohhh so romantic. I swooned over Ice Cube. The boy tried to unhook my bra. (FAIL.) And then he took me home.

Shortly thereafter he wrote me a note and handed it to me between classes. “I’ll always love you,” he wrote, as he went about explaining to me that his best girl friend, whom I had never met, had confessed her love for him. And if they didn’t try things now, he’d always wonder.

It wasn’t until the end of that school year that I got my first kiss. From Mr. Athletic. We had gone on a walk on the beach and he’d laid it on me. It was my welcome to the world of sandy kisses. He carried me back down the beach to the house. We kissed more on the couch in the room with our friends. And then I went to bed thinking, How am I going to get rid of this guy?

I had liked him for months but now? Now that I was sure he liked me? Now he was smitten and I was not. Over instant messenger he asked me to be his girlfriend. His girlfriend! I could’ve been somebody’s lady friend. Instead I told him I really didn’t want to date someone over the summer. Because, obvy, the summer after my sophomore year was going to be booked, you know.  He didn’t listen to Brandy but I hear he got good and drunk.

My freshman year of college was the year that I got good and drunk. At a fraternity function. I was dressed as a flapper and my date, my old friend from preschool who I’d always crushed on a little bit, was Mafia attired. We pre-gamed, we danced, we hit up a booth in the corner of the place and we kissed and we kissed and oh lord I needed a ride home and someone to tell me the next day whether that kissing actually happened or not. Which my date’s best friend was more than happy to do, as he told me how much my date had liked me and he was so shy and I needed to reassure him by calling him some (or, er, calling him back). But I didn’t, and he didn’t step up, and there was nothing lost. (Except maybe for a little dignity which had likely been spent on purple jesus.)

Two years later I was back on a dance floor in a frat house with a boy named Ben whose name I think I liked more than Ben himself. He tongue attacked me and tried to [in the bathroom] mack on me but all in all I left with most of my dignity and my phone number still kept to myself. (A trend I would later recognize.)

Post-college I experienced a lot of boredom. This is also known as no dating potential. Casually recognized as just plain no date invitations. (Um, I was used to it, so who are we kidding?)

I found an attachment to a guy friend I’d met that meant spending most nights at his house. We never did do anything but talk and sleep and spend inordinant amounts of time together. And he, Mr. Beat, was a guy that soon became someone I wanted to beat over the head with a stick. I was attached. To him and to his conversations. (And now, I can honestly say, not to the way he looked.)

One day, some time later, we did finally kiss. It had followed jaeger, produced zero sparks, and taught me a lesson that Garth Brooks has tried many times before to instill in me. That being thanking God for unanswered prayers.

The search continued. After pina coladas laced with moonshine, I found myself on a Sunday funday in August of 2007 on the backporch of the Slumdog Bachelor’s house realizing what the words “good kisser” meant. I got up off that porch and into my car that night to go home and counted down the years it’d been since anyone had good and kissed me. The next morning before work I told the roommate of the little bit of dignity I’d spent the night prior and she decided the following week to test my best kisser theory. (No harm done; Slumdog Bachelor never was on my radar to begin with.) I continued to act all Judgy McJudgerson on guys that followed. Guys who continued to go without my number. Someone I’d known in college, Dreadlocks who had been my super secret special crush, McHottie’s brother Otter. I continued to kiss ‘em and leave ‘em and Oh! They never called because they had no way to! And I didn’t want them to anyway! So all’s fair, right?

Well, if we’re being honest, they never tried to get my number. And the one or two that did have it? Yea, they never tried to use it.

So while saying no big deal, I wasn’t that into them either, can be both helpful and true, it really makes me think. It’s pretty simple: I’m just looking for the guy who’s my exception just as much as I am his.

“I don’t want to be ‘sort of dating’ someone. I don’t want to be ‘kind of hanging out’ with someone. I don’t want to spend a lot of energy suppressing my feelings so I appear uninvolved. I want to be involved.” He’s Just Not That Into You by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo.

this may be why i'm single.

The official what I want in a man list. (To be added to at any time.)

1. Be funny. I don’t care if your jokes are corny. In fact, the more better to run in stride with me. But laughter? Laughter’s key. I love to laugh.

2. Like the outdoors. I don’t mean you should regularly use a latrine or holler at me “hey baby let’s go camping every damn day.” I want you to like it. In a conventional sense. Don’t be a lazy dud. Like the prospect of hiking. Tennis and golf. Football.

3. Yea, let’s get this straight: must love football. MUST. College football specifically. I don’t care what team you cheer for but cheer on. And none of this “southerners think too much of their college football teams.” I don’t want to hear it. Love it. And go to games with me. And drink beer. Mmm.

4. Respect me. Not that you can’t slap my ass when you want. But I want respect. As in, listen to what I say. Don’t push me. Don’t take my feelings and toss them aside. And don’t be a jerk to me in front of others. Or in front of anyone. When I’m thirsty in the middle of the night and I say “water, please”? Please for the love of God just get it for me.

5. Respect your family. I once, about a year ago, sat at dinner with a guy who told me about how much of a slack ass his brother was and how trashy his brother’s girlfriend was and yada yada yada. And you know what? It didn’t matter about anything else he said. Because it was not a friend talking casually to another friend about the same old shit. We were on a DATE. A first date, no less. And dating someone means dating their family. (Kind of. You know what I mean.) And he was just losing in all sorts of ways.

6. Respect my family. Because I can tell you all sorts of stories – craaaazy stories – about my brothers, but you should know above all else that I love them unconditionally. And there’s a fine line to draw between sticking up for me when I’m in a verbal disagreement with my mother and making sure you don’t ever say anything negative about my wonderful mom. So I would start practicing tightrope walking now.

7. Be accountable. This is big. If you say “let’s go to dinner next week”? Best take me to dinner next week. If you say “let’s slow down”? Best not mean let’s stop this dating-like game we’re playing and I don’t ever want to talk to you again. I am not a mind reader. And I don’t like having to overanalyze situations or read between the lines. With guys I want to take things at face value. So just freaking be accountable, be someone I can call so I don’t for the next 20 some odd years bug my brother in Gvegas when I might potentially have a nail in my tire or am running out of gas and need to find the location of the nearest Exxon. Or maybe don’t know what temp the thermostat can reasonably be on because I’m freezing and the roommate’s out of town. Be accountable to me. Please.

8. Don’t drink too much. I mean, drink, and if you want to get drunk atleast be a fun drunk. Because there’s nothing worse than a guy with an alternate bourbon personality. Sketchiness while overindulged? Totally entertaining. Knowledge of what wine I should order or beer I should venture to equals an added plus. Also, the 5 to whenever happy hour? Big fan. Not every night, though. Particularly on the random weeknight.  Lots of points if you support this desire.

9. Dance. Dance. Dance. Because I’m going to totally need a guy to lead me.

10. Have your head on your shoulders. I’m really not into that “ooh I’m still coasting my way through Midlands Tech” guy. Or the one that wants to meet up at Sharky’s. Nor the guy that thinks I’m eager and willing to meet him at a friend’s house for a bonfire 30 minutes away from where I live every Friday and Saturday that he asks. And I mean EVERY. Nor even the guy that each time he sees me tells me about all his prospective job opportunities and how busy busy he is at work. Because I really don’t care all that much. Or – oh my – the ones that seem to think I give a damn that they know or work in some fashion with my father. Really, that’s awesome that you think he’s so awesome but he is my dad.  NOT IMPRESSED.

11. Please be able to atleast grow facial hair. That is all.

12. Understand my need for J.Crew and Anthropologie as a part of retail therapy. And the occasional high Target expense. Which is why right now I am restricting myself from Target. As well as Barnes and Noble. Too bad I can’t seem to restrict myself from online shopping. Damn computer.

13. Have religion. Because, and just personally, the whole apathetic/agnostic/atheist stuff does not go far with me. I’m not requiring you to pick a political party (though small judgements can be made if you favor certain politicians over others). But I do think, that for a relationship’s sake, I’m going to have to ask that you love sweet baby Jesus. And no, you best not expect me in church every Sunday morning.

14. Take my good with my bad. Take my insecurities with my sometime edginess. Take my bad clothing combinations with my great outfits. Take my need for Pizza Man alongside my love of Mr. Friendly’s. Take my laughter with my tears and my increased volume with my silence. Take my love for romantic comedies right up there beside my total obsession with the Bourne Trilogy and Superbad. Take the fact that sometimes I don’t want to leave the house and would prefer to watch movies, order in, and play games and love it just as much as the day when I have decided TONIGHT I AM GOING OUT. And I will be overserved. And then blame it on the bartender. Or perhaps you.

15. Be able to safely get me home. Then I can get my mom to quit saying, “Kristin, you have to be more careful when you go out and drink than I do because I have your dad to look out for me.”

16. Appreciate the people around me. Because the people around me are, well, not all that much like me. I want a guy that can hang out with my married best friend in Charleston and her infant baby and great dane, go to Greenville and visit my insanely crazy turned somewhat settled college friend who is soon to elope with her live in boyfriend, go to the least classy college bar in Columbia to say a quick hello to a lunatic childhood friend who gets drunk in under an hour and has the most unholy hookup history, take a trip to Atlanta with me to visit my old bible study leader and her husband, have a drink with my boss, dinner at my grandparent’s, and never once question why they’re all in my life for keeps.

17. Let me win. For the longest time I would have said “fight with me.” I was feisty once and I would have said “I want a guy that likes to argue.” Um, scratch that. I want a guy that doesn’t argue. At all. That when I say, “No, never met them,” doesn’t say, “Yes you have.” And doesn’t say “I told you so” when I call and say, “Actually, you were right I have.” Just says, “Yea, I know.” And smiles. Pretty simple. Let me win.

18. Do not have vanity issues. I could care less if you have a receding hairline. Don’t be that guy (I actually know) that drinks special nasty smoothies his mother gave him the recipe for that are supposed to help with hair growth. Also, I will break up with you the instant you touch hair gel to your head. Be able to throw on clothes without thought and make my heart melt in whatever they are. Be able to dress for yourself and buy for yourself (and me) just like my father does for himself and my mom. Know that I don’t spend a whole hell of a lot of time in front of the mirror and therefore you should spend way less. Be easygoing even about yourself.

19. Have the normal family thing going for you. Not that my family is normal. At all. But normal by my standards. Um, please keep in mind that when dating I not only judge you, I also judge your family. And I want someone whose family is fun! With fun family traditions! (Perhaps so I can someday make them my own. Oh well.) But I want someone that maybe believes in and knows what love is just as I do. Because I can see it in my parents. I sort of kind of want someone that has that too. Bonus: I used to also say that the guy I ended up with needed to have a sister. Weird, maybe. But Gvegas brother once said to me that having me as a sister really helped him understand where his now fiance was coming from a lot of the time. And I really think there’s a lot to be said for that. Also, how cool would it be to finally have a sis?

20. Be my friend. My best friend, really. Let me be able to tell you anything and everything I think and still just love me. Unconditionally. Be my friend in a way that I have always been searching for. The person to whom I can say the first thing out of my mouth to before I can even think it through. Miss me when I’m out of town. Miss me even if we’d never met. Tell me you wish I were with you when you’re gone. Want me on the driving range by your side, out every now and then when you’re with your guys, there with you when you’re nervous or anxious and especially when you’re your happiest. Kiss me in the morning even with our unbrushed teeth. Want me. And love me. That’s all I ask.

i'm trying this new thing where i like myself.

Dear Fireman,

Today I was driving down Main Street and I thought about you. Really it had to do with the fact that I was listening to Sol Driven Train and remember that first time we saw each other? You don’t? Huh. Well I was jammin’ to SDT and you asked me what it was.

Actually, I was thinking about you yesterday, too. I picked up a copy of the Free Times and I flipped it open to the personals and low and behold, there were no Missed Connections. I tried to channel you through one because I thought it would be greatly entertaining, but the Free Times must also get free labor, as no one returned my email.

You know what? Now that I mention it, I thought about you Saturday, too, as I was participating in the Walk for Life. This woman walking near us pointed out the firemen on the side of the road by saying, “Ooh! Firemen! And they’re good looking too!” (They were not.) We turned and all and looked. (I swear, no comparison.) And [the woman] saw us paying her words some attention and she was all “I’m married girls; y’all should look!” And Katie, my future sis-in-law, was all shy as per usual and saying quietly, “Not me! I’m engaged.” That woman seemed to be having none of it ’cause she shot back with a, “You can still look!” And I was all thinking, Yea I’m all for looking but SHE’S MARRYING ONE OF MY BIG BROTHERS so she answered right. So there you go.

But anyway, I was driving around Columbia with Sol Driven Train today, while I was on my lunch hour. I went over to the elusive campus and figured out with great ease (FINALLY) how to go about getting my USC ID. I will officially call it THE GREATEST STUDENT ID I HAVE EVER OWNED. That’s not too difficult to achieve, mind you. What would be really cool is if I put up a picture of my Clemson ID and showed you how different I am now, 6 years later. But I’m not evolved enough for that. Ironically, my Clemson picture either followed or preceded what I often remember as THE BEST SUMMER EVER. Why couldn’t I have just looked good?

Oh yea, and y’all liked how I hid my name and ID number? Oh, you’ve all already figured out my full name? Yea, duh.

In the meantime, Chick-fil-A is so friggin good. I just ate it and it is easily THE BEST FAST FOOD EVER.

Perhaps I have resorted to labeling things “Best Ever” because the Free Times is doing their Best of Columbia 2008 Survey. I don’t really know.

In any event, Fireman, I know you’re wondering why I’m thinking so much about you. I mean, just a couple of hours ago I was getting that ID handed to me and I thought, Boy I bet that fireman wishes he could date me. I’m a student! But really, I was walking around campus realizing, for the first time in a long time, I feel good about me. I like things about me. I haven’t liked things about me in a long time and it feels like a relief. Like things are right. I’m working on making my karma good too.

I was walking back into the office from my car and from behind, Mr. Beat called out to me. I turned and began telling him that I’d gotten my ID [to his alma mater] just then. I started telling him how excited I was (and looking back I’m thinking whoa nelly, you talk too much) and how I thought the woman at the Carolina Card office probably either thought I was adorable or crazy. I said I had asked her to retake my picture because my hair was flipping out on one side. And [Mr. Beat] said to me, “Oh, let me see.” At first I thought he was talking about my hair. (He hasn’t seen me since I cut 5.5 inches off.) Then, I realized he might be talking about my boobs. (I took care of sharing that bit of information with him yesterday when he told me he’d heard I’d had surgery and What kind? Why? all worried sounding and shiz.) Lastly, I realized, Yes, one moment, I will get MY NEW ID out of my wallet to share with you.

It’s good to make peace, though. With him. With me. With the things in my life that weren’t really making me that happy. (Please don’t confuse. Chick-fil-A does make me happy. As does yesterday’s lunch crave, Monterrey’s. Okay, maybe FOOD IN GENERAL makes me happy. But I digress.) I’ve been realizing lately, for the first time ever, really, that I’m kind of happy with my life. I may not have the perfect job, or the perfect wardrobe, or the perfect complexion, but maybe it wouldn’t be too crazy for someone else to like me too.

Love,

Me

we'll call them ghosts.

There was a moment yesterday when you cocked your head back with laughter and I thought, “Wow. You look so much like your brother.” I couldn’t say it. (You’d kill me.) So I sat there in silence, for just a moment. And I thought about him. I thought about him, to myself, thinking, “How cute is he?”

I’m not dwelling. I’m not even concerned. I’m not letting the fact of all of this affect me. That you don’t bother to even wonder why and what happened. Because maybe you know and you keep on knowing and you don’t want me to voice it because you are afraid I just might. “You’re not who I thought you were and I don’t have time for the guy that you are,” is what I’d say. If I cared enough to say even that.

“Why does he irritate you so much?” I don’t know. “Why do you have such an aversion?” I’m not sure. “Can’t you even just be friends?” Yea, I don’t think so.

I like everything about you that I know. Except there’s this one thing. Beyond that, you make me laugh. Beyond that, you make me smile. Beyond that, I know you’re better than most.

There is something about you I can’t help but hold on to as much as sometimes I wish I’d just let it go. But you’re there. You’re solid.

Do you laugh when you think of me? Do you even think of me? Did you just want to know me, even just a little bit, because of who my father is? Does it bother you, how closely we end up working together sometimes? Does it occur to you that, for once, you’re someone who is more awkward than I?

I can’t believe it possibly hurt you that much. I find it hard to believe what I’ve been told, over the past two years, as to why you find it hard to be my friend, hard to forgive over something that happened 8 years ago. I find it difficult to believe you don’t recognize my voice or my number when I call you to catch up. I find it amazing how excited you act to see me when you least expect to.

I saw you called again Tuesday night and didn’t leave a message. And the fact that you haven’t texted me in months? Yea, I realized that too. But the other day, when I was out running and I thought about you? I thought, man, I really want to get those earrings back that I left at his house. And that was it.

did i mention i need a vacay?

I am excited to have finally remembered to bill my editor for the past 4 months for a number of reasons. Most notably this one:

I am happy the weekend is over because I am hoping the next one will be better. Maybe it will be in Charleston. Maybe I will have to stay here. In any event it will not consist of work or dog sitting. If I can help it.

I am tired for reasons that I don’t understand. I thought the whole “exercise gives you endorphins” thing Elle Woods talks about in Legally Blonde would be working on me. I think it’s working the other way.

I am irritated for a number of reasons, I think. A few of which I can put my finger on. Some of which are work related. Others which result from a weekend without enough rest.

I am pleased there appears to be a storm brewing. Yay for a little free water.

I am wanting to see The Dark Knight, honestly. Funny thing is, it’s making me start to realize I wish I had a guy to see it with. Because I’d probably get scared. Really.

I am amused that I had to lobby around the office for 25 cents so that I could afford to get a Diet Dr. Pepper. And that I found someone willing to go find that quarter for me, and bring it to me. And that when I went to procure my soda, I saw Mr. Beat coming, said “hi,” and turned my back and went on my merry way. Like a grown up.

I am looking forward to saying that I may have gotten out of my whole predicament with Cute Boy by telling him, when he called a short while ago, that I have to be at one lake on the Friday he asked about and at another lake the next day. And I’m really not sure how much free time I’ll have that evening. Done and done.

I am wishing I had been reading more in the last couple of weeks. But I think that’s what happens when I am not ecstatic about the book club pick. And then I get stuck on it. And then that’s that.

I am ready to go home.

knocking.

Live boldly. Take risks. Make somebody say, “What the hell was that about?”

I am 2 people. 2 hearts, 2 minds, and 2 bodies. I am someone who cares, deeply. I am someone who is afflicted, greatly, by the actions of others. And I am someone who doesn’t care, who won’t let it bother her, who forgives and forgets as though it is an art form.

Thursday night around 10 o’clock I got a call from a friend. I was reading my book and it being her summer away from students, I just assumed she was out and about and I didn’t answer. The next day I found out it was because a friend of ours and the guy she had been seeing ended things. Not in a petulant way, but in a way of recognizing that he is not in a place where he is happy with the rest of his life and she can’t let herself get any further involved if he’s not there to match it.

We made plans to all meet out for martinis at a new bar in town. As I drove there, my friend called me to brief me about our newly single. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she started. “[She] hooked up with Mr. Beat around the time something happened between he and you.”

“He was an ass about it,” she continued. “You should have heard the comments he made afterwards. If I saw him, I would want to hit him right now, Kristin.”

I listened for a moment before I spoke. “He is an ass,” I told her, working up to it. “He’s an ass and he’s a guy and he doesn’t care about who he messes with and who’s friends with who and what he does to his friends. He’s an ass and you know what? You know the funny thing about it all? I don’t care anymore. I don’t give a damn.” (Channel Rhett Butler here.)

It felt so good. And I knew it was good and it was right because I said it, and then I went to the friend that this occured with. I sat beside her and I drank with her and I knew still that I liked her and that she was my friend. And that this guy is a horrible example of the kind of guys that are out there, that are single, that are here.

And I’m just really, kind of, getting tired of it all.

the happenings (of the night).

I sat there, dressed in my deep purple dress, new metallic-ish heels, David Yurman knock off ring, gold leaf earrings, and vintage purse, and thought indifferently, independently, “I feel good about me.”

I showed up with two guys by my side. Both friends of mine; both guys I know through Mr. Beat but with whom I hadn’t seen in many months. Both, now, friends of mine and mine alone.

I sat, in the car, on the way from the reception, with them both.

“So, that guy in the khaki suit was really hot,” I said, knowing of his reputation, his relationship status, his financial status, anything and all. “I hear he is a man-whore,” I added, apathetic to the ears of those around me. “But then, you know, experience tells me I have a thing for man-whores.”

“The only man-whore you could be referring to would be Mr. Beat,” one of my dates added. “Good Lord, he’s like in triple digits now,” he laughingly informed.

I was silent.

Shortly thereafter we discussed said male friend’s number. “28,” he said.

Back and forth about whose number had been increased by which member of our group of friends, I felt compelled to add, “I haven’t lost my dignity with anyone known by y’all.”

“I wouldn’t believe it,” my friend driving said. “I wouldn’t believe it and I can’t believe you’re implying it. I’m quite certain Mr. Beat’s one of your numbers.”

My answers did no justice. His silence hindered his objective none. The assumption merely interrupted my thoughts.

On the way home from the bar he, my good friend, spoke to me about why, at 25, he feels as though he’s missing something in his life. That he’s this good guy, this good and eligible guy, but he can’t make a relationship work, he can’t meet a girl that really cares about him.

“You know,” I said to him, “I don’t understand it either. I feel like I’m a good person. A nice girl. Not just a fun and cutesy girl, but the cool one too. The one that sides on the boyfriend’s side in her friend’s arguments because that’s really the way she feels. Someone that has worked hard, has good intentions, has a lot to offer, yet still, can’t find someone that recognizes that.”

“I’ll tell you now like I’ve told you since I first met you, I think you’re a great catch, Kristin,” he went on to say, inferring his misunderstanding of it all as well.

“I feel like the guys I meet,” I continued as though I was on to something, though obvious it was to me, “are just there. They’re successful with no personality. They’re in to me and boring. They’re all about themselves. They’re soulless.”

“I only know one person you could be calling soulless,” he said back to me. “And that’s Mr. Beat.”

And it felt weird knowing he was right. Knowing that once again, this night, that he knew my pain, that he knew my anguish, that he recognized the soullessness of a guy that should have, at some point, recognized me.

pouring out of me.

I cried today.

I had just hung up the phone from McHottie. He had shown his ass again. He had not apologized. And he had gone off on his merry little way to play golf.

I laughed today.

At the little things. At the fact that I’m still here. At something small and probably irrelevant that the roommate said to me. At my life.

I smiled today.

When I realized that my Exxon card works again. Thanks, Dad. I was about to start riding my bike.

I was thankful today.

For the coworkers who helped me when I needed help. Who told me not to stress when I was stressed out. For the Work Mama I still have while the other is a lost hope.

I wondered today.

Once I saw my adversary in a suit instead of jeans. On a Friday. Once I realized she left at 1. When we close at 5.

I hurt today.

First when I saw Mr. Beat’s truck was not in the parking lot when I ran an errand around 10:45 and I didn’t know where he might be. Then when I realized his truck was parked outside around 3 and I didn’t know where he might have been.

I had a moment today.

Primarily when Mr. Beat’s ex invited me to her birthday celebration Monday night and I realized, then, that while I’m okay – finally – with this person, I’m unexpectedly not okay with someone I wouldn’t have expected to be hurt over.

I got excited today.

Because the roommate and I put a deposit on a duplex in Shandon. And it’s going to have fresh paint and new screens and newly refinished floors and a front porch that is not inviting to a peeping tom. [Did I forget to mention that we're pretty sure we're living below one?]

I dreamed today.

Of the one day when all these things come easily.

“I’m learning little by little that we decide what our lives are gonna be. Things happen to us. But it’s our reactions that matter.” sally, felicity.

lessons learned.

Yesterday I sat in my office perusing GoodReads. I started out by looking up a few of my favorite books to read the reviews and see if I could find other recommendations by individuals who had read those that I carry with me long after I’ve finished reading.

I read a review for one particular book, about which a girl wrote that she wanted to include her favorite quote [in said review], but it was on the 2nd to last page and sort of gave the ending away.

Sitting at home last night watching a movie with the roommate and looking at my bookshelf, I pulled my copy of Mr. Maybe off the shelf, where it had sat, untouched for probably over a year.

Inside I found a note from Mr. Beat, from September 26, 2006.

Happy Birthday Sexy Baby Girl!
Hope you enjoy this book even though it is by the rival author of your favorite. There is another gift coming to you, but it won’t be in until February 27, 2007.. you might can figure that one out Sherlock! “Thank you for being a friend, traveled down the road and back again.”

Being that my favorite author was/is Sophie Kinsella, I knew that meant he had preordered her upcoming book for me.

Last night, I was almost dismissive of this memory. I stuck the note back in the front of the book and I flipped to the last few pages. I read over a particular paragraph (on the very last page, in fact) and then I read it aloud, to the roommate.

“And suddenly I realize that although I’ve never thought about being in love with Nick before, all the right ingredients are there. I fancy him. I like him. He’s my friend. He makes me laugh. I love being with him. And I start to feel all sort of warm and glowy, and screw the other stuff. Screw the stuff about him having no money, and living in a bedsit, and not being what I thought I wanted. I’m just going to go with this and see where it ends up. I mean, no one says I have to marry the guy, for God’s sake.”
[jane green.]

“Words to live by,” the roommate said out loud, once I finished reading.

And I thought there for a minute, realizing, that I don’t need to know anything right now. I don’t need to have some earth shattering, foot popping moment. I don’t need to feel bad about wanting a different kind of love. But sometimes, oftentimes, great joy can be found in the search.

wishing.

The guy in the cubicle next to me picks up the phone when his wife calls by saying, “Hello baby.”

I wish he wouldn’t.

I saw Mr. Beat as I pulled into the parking lot this morning. He waved at me and I waved back. He lifted his arm to look at his wrist watch, as if to say to me, You’re late. And I beat you.

I wish he wouldn’t.

I heard the other day about a man I know who is having an affair. He has a beautiful wife. And children.

I wish he wouldn’t.

When I wrote about McHottie’s brother Otter, I wrote that I did not expect him to call. That I knew he wasn’t going to. Intrinsically, I thought I would see him sometime not too far off. Deeply, I wanted him to desire me in some way, to want me, to want to see me. There is this fear that he would be added to a list of disappointed hopes.

I wish he wouldn’t.

McHottie, himself, has been so stressed out by work for months. Sometimes it’s as though his smile disappears, the life draining out of him. He lets his work get to him so much.

I wish he wouldn’t.

El Boss, too, isn’t having the greatest time. Sometimes it can be so difficult for people to understand the plight of your cause. Though I think things are manageable to him, this situation that has been created for me at work – this awkward, awkward situation – is manageable for him, because he is away from the office so frequently. He comes in, does what he needs and leaves, not soaking in his surroundings.

I wish he wouldn’t.

My mom thinks my sweet sweet dad works too hard and too much. His old law partner said to me on Sunday at lunch, “Sometimes being a partner in a large firm isn’t all it’s cut out to be,” as he looked over at my dad, who looked tired and worn. Even I know he does what he does out of obligation, out of need, out of a desire to help an industry he believes in. Even I know it’s true. He works too hard.

I wish he wouldn’t.

Tomorrow, ah tomorrow, there is another meeting in the office at which I expect Cute Boy to be in attendance.

I wish he wouldn’t.